I’ve said before that there are things the guy I think of as Cunt won’t do. He doesn’t suck. He doesn’t kiss. He won’t jack me off.

What he does do—and does very well—is stick his ass up in the air and wait for me to plow it. On the whole, that’s all I really need from the guy.

He’s had a proposal in mind lately that he keeps running by me. He did so again on Monday morning, messaging me with, You know what I think about? Me giving you like, a week of my life. I’ll be ready for you at a specific time every day, like seven o’clock in the evening, or right at noon. You pick. Whatever time it is I’ll be ass up on my bed or just shoving my cunt up at the front door from the stairs. If you care to take advantage, fine, I get your loads. If you don’t, I just wait for twenty minutes or so and then call it a day. What do you think?

Treasure Island Media, Bad Seed

I wrote him back with a compromise. How about I just nail you now?

Yessir, he wrote. Cunt will be ready at 10.

I showed up at the Cunt’s door at ten on the dot, and let myself in. Dried oak leaves lay on the floor just inside the mat; they’d blown in during the few minutes the door had been cracked open, waiting for my arrival. I kicked them outside with my sneaker and let the door shut behind me. Up the stairs I went, making certain he could hear my every step.

I’ve seen Cunt’s face before. I know what it looks like; I could pick him out with only moderate effort from a group photo. It’s his ass I could recognize immediately in a photo of a thousand men bent over, though. I’ve fucked that ass so often over the last dozen years that I know exactly how it’s going to look, lifted up and over the bed’s edge as he kneels in position for me when I enter. His head rested on the pillows; Cunt’s long arms reached to the sides and clutched the mattress’ edges with curved, rigid knuckles. I didn’t say a thing. I shucked my jacket and let it fall on the floor, and then I kicked off my shoes. My pants slipped down to my ankles. I kicked them off. When I was left wearing only a T-shirt and my socks, I stepped up behind him and knelt down.

And then I rimmed. Cunt has such a clean ass that he’s a pleasure to eat. I like to carry the smell of him, pink and sweet, on my beard for the rest of the day, after we’ve fucked. He has a tendency to grunt, rather than moan and groan; he sounds like a pig at the trough, feeding, when I’m the one eating away. “You know I love that cunt of yours,” I said, standing up and slapping his butt.

Treasure Island Media, Fuck Holes 2

That word has so much power for him. I can tell it sends him to a headspace in which, unlike me, he can’t over think anything. He can’t even think. He’s transported, transformed into a receptacle, a vessel for an other’s man’s pleasure. Other men abhor the word. They can’t stand the thought of any portion of them feminized. This man doesn’t give a shit. He wants to be made something he isn’t. When he’s having sex, he’s not considering what’s masculine or feminine. He’s just craving dick. He wants to be the object of use and derision. I recognize the impulse from my own, distant bottoming days. Just when one thinks one can’t be taken any lower, degraded any more, there’ll be a touch, or a hair-pull, or a slap, that’ll do the job. Or a word. One single word.

“Cunt,” I repeat, driving in.

The bed shakes and begins to shudder across the wooden bedroom floor, pushing at the little table beyond with its nightstand boasting a copy of The Economist spread open upon it. It slid onto the floor. I don’t bother to fuck the Cunt sweetly—it doesn’t matter. I don’t have to woo it to get in. I don’t have to sweet-talk it or put it at ease. I can just fuck like an animal, banging away. I just pound, and fuck, and thrust, and do what my hips tell me to do, listening to nothing but the sounds of Cunt’s grunting and the slap of my pelvis against his expansive ass, until the first orgasm strikes.

“Feed the cunt,” he growls, greedily pushing back against me. He repeats the words over and over in a steady decrescendo as I shoot. Then, after a moment, he demand, “More. More!”

He’s insatiable, the Audrey II of the Little Shop of Whores.

I gave him more. I fucked him slowly for a while, letting the stiffness return to my road. The additional slipperiness of my cum usually does the trick for a second round; I love the slickness and the sticky sounds as I pivot in and out. The second orgasm took a good ten minutes to arrive. When it did, it was the product of sheer friction, of a fast, jackrabbit thrusting. No one would have been able to hold out long under that kind of stimulation. I had no choice but to juice him deeply. He was too insistent at getting me in deep to unload anywhere else. “More!” he growled, almost immediately.

I had already withdrawn, and fallen down on my knees to press my lips against his hole. I could taste the sweetness of the lube I’d used on the first round, mingled with the salty, slightly chlorinated taste of my semen leaking out of his hole. I sucked at his ass lips, enjoying the warm moisture of them, while he clenched and shook and tried fruitlessly to buck me off. He wanted every drop for himself.

“More?” he asked, this time as a plea.

I had one more. I fucked him slowly the last time. The first and second time were to get my nut. The third time was sheerly for the pleasure of it—to feel the warmth of his hole around my meat, to listen to the sounds with my eyes closed, and to smell the sweat and sperm. I fucked like that for long minutes. He didn’t complain—he was still getting dick, after all. Once I’d recuperated from the shock of the first two loads, the third began to build. When I let loose with it, though, it was far from explosive. It gushed, and it made me shake with the intensity of it, but it seemed to spill from me rather than blast, smooth and on schedule, and completely welcome.

Treasure Island Media, Bad Seed

“More?” he wanted to know, after a long moment in which I had to rest my chest on his back until I got my wind again.

“I’m spent.” I pushed off, flopped out, and wiped my dick on one of the towels he keeps on the bed. “You got three loads, dude.” I yanked back on my jeans, then sat down on the floor to pull on my sneakers. Cunt remained on the bed, head turned away from me. His feet were on the floor now, resting there, while his body remained splayed over the bed.

Once I was in my jacket, I did the customary phone-keys-wallet check, and slapped him on the ass again. “You got what you wanted, cunt,” I told him, and headed for the hallway.

I’d reached the top of the stairs when I heard his faint reply. “But I want more.”

Story courtesy of Mr. Steed

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